


Shattered

by SmashingTeacups



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dragons, Established Relationship, F/M, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Poor Viserion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-28 22:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12616984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmashingTeacups/pseuds/SmashingTeacups
Summary: In the aftermath of the battle beyond the Wall, Daenerys buries the pain of Viserion's loss beneath every last defense mechanism she possesses. With the threat of war brewing on two fronts, the Queen does not have the luxury of indulging her grief. But as the shock begins to dissipate and the distractions wear thin, she finds the iron grasp on her control beginning to slip. The night, after all, is dark and full of terrors. Fortunately, an old friend has been keeping a watchful eye on her - one who knows better than to believe her pretense of cool detachment.Missing scene, 7x06. Showverse, canon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting in AO3! Thrilled to be here. 
> 
> The obvious disclaimer: I don't own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Just playing in the creators' sandbox. I would very much like to give Dave and Dan the benefit of the doubt and assume that they purposely chose not to show Daenerys having any kind of grief response in season 7 because they need to save it for when she sees Zombie!Viserion next season? But that's the joy of missing scene fics. I have no time constraints, you see - if they're not gonna write it, I'll take one for the team. ;)
> 
> I cannot begin to thank Jasminalaine enough for her beta-reading services. Girl knows what's up, y'all. You're a wonderful sounding board and I appreciate your insight so much.
> 
> This story was originally written in one 18 page chunk, but after some discussion, I decided to break it into three chapters and an epilogue. I'll post the first two chapters today, the third on Sunday, and the epilogue sometime next week. Stay tuned!

Daenerys drifted through the morning in a haze of shock. She remembered very little of it, afterwards.

At some point she was vaguely aware that she must have made it back to the Wall, for she knew that she had been standing at the top of it when a horn blast signaled Jon’s return. She must have given the order for the men to take him aboard her ship, for the captain to embark at once for Dragonstone, but she didn’t recall saying the words. There was a strange dissonance to her thoughts, fading in and out in a kaleidoscope of consciousness, images, sounds. She felt herself move, heard herself speak as though she were somehow detached from her body. Adrift somewhere. Like a dream.  

She had gravitated to Jon, knowing only that she needed – desperately, viscerally needed – to watch him breathe. She had stared for hours at the stab wounds along his chest and stomach, watching his ribcage rise and fall. It hadn’t been a figure of speech, a flight of Northern fancy. He had literally taken a knife to the heart – several knives, each of them a death sentence – and somehow managed to walk away. Just as he had plunged through a sheet of ice into the depths of a lake, swarmed by an army of corpses, and somehow reappeared at the Wall several hours later, frozen through, but _breathing_.

She needed him to survive. It was the only thought that permeated the fog of her mind. She sat there all morning waiting for him to open his eyes, praying to every god in the universe that they would still be brown.

And gods, how his brown eyes had ached with apology the moment they opened on her face. She couldn’t… she’d shaken her head, unable to even begin to process the loss he meant to console. Instead, she steeled herself with promises of vengeance, alliance; fire and blood. He’d reached for her hand, undeterred, holding her gaze with such tenderness that it made her want to weep. He called her Dany. _Dany_. She’d laughed at the absurdity. Dany had been a child, cowering as her brother grabbed fistfuls of her hair and pinned her to the floor, screaming inches from her face, his elbows digging into her ribs until she couldn’t breathe.

_Dany._

Perhaps it was the conjuring of that old childhood name. Perhaps it was the shock beginning to wear off. Perhaps it was the words he chose to profess his faith in her, gently peeling back the layers of her composure to reveal the vulnerable young woman who hid beneath a Queen’s façade. Whatever the reason, Daenerys stared down into his eyes and felt herself beginning to break.

Too late, she withdrew and suggested he should get some rest.

At first, she wasn’t fully conscious of the volcanic pain building in her chest. It had lingered all morning, little more than a hollow ache at the periphery of her mind. She’d smothered it in favor of the more immediate matter at hand; Jon’s miraculous survival offered a much-needed distraction, a focal point on which to direct her attention. Without it, there was nothing left to stop her living nightmare from bleeding through the rapidly dissipating haze of shock. Alone for the first time that day, Daenerys locked herself in her private quarters and pressed a shaking hand to her diaphragm, feeling suddenly that there wasn’t enough air.

The memories came back in fragments, streaking across her mind’s eye like forks of lightning.

_Snarling, gnashing teeth._

_A flaming sword._

_Rotting grey flesh hanging from a horse’s face._

_Jon’s voice, screaming at her to go._

_Blood, everywhere… blood in the water, blood on the ice, blood pouring like a waterfall from the sky…_

Her mind shut off, then.

It was an old instinct, nearly as old as Daenerys herself. Some of her earliest memories were of cowering beneath her brother’s maniacal rage, having made some innocuous mistake that triggered a violent outburst — “waking the dragon,” he called it. Any struggle, any attempt to plead or scream or fight back only served to reward him. Viserys took sick pleasure in seeing her writhe. The quickest way to end it was to shut down, to disconnect completely. With time, it became one of the more effective and well-used tools in her arsenal. It allowed her to stare into the pale, decomposing faces of one hundred and sixty-three crucified children without shedding a single tear; to stand glassy-eyed as the person she trusted most in the world confessed his treason; to unflinchingly burn proud old noblemen and frightened boy soldiers by the thousands.

Daenerys lowered herself onto the edge of her bed, her eyes empty, and told herself that this time was no different. If anything, the morning’s catastrophic loss required an even tighter rein on her control than ever before. Cerebrally, logically, she knew what it meant that the Dragon Queen had lost a third of her force in one fell swoop. Her image as a conqueror would suffer irreparable damage. No one had known – _she_ had not known – that the dragons were mortally vulnerable. It would not be long before that fact became common knowledge. She had no doubt that upon learning it, Cersei would immediately set to work trying to devise a method to annihilate the remaining two.

There were plans to be made, ravens to be sent. Tyrion needed to be updated on their success in capturing the wight so that he could make arrangements for the parley in King’s Landing, while Grey Worm and Qhono awaited her command to march on the capital. Daenerys intended to arrive with the full might of her armies behind her. The mobilization of tens of thousands of troops over an entire continent was no small feat to organize. There was plenty to distract her, plenty to keep her occupied. She went to her desk and began to draft plans and letters, throwing herself into her work.

Only once, when the telltale swoop of wings dove over the ship, did her penmanship falter. She blinked – once, twice – as Drogon cried out, his voice hoarse and ragged with pain. She held stone still for a moment, waiting for an answering cry. She gripped her quill until her hand cramped, and a quivering black ink blot dripped onto her paper. When nothing but silence followed, she stoically crumpled the parchment in a fist and swept it aside.

Rhaegal had not been with them when they touched down at Eastwatch. That was one thing she did remember, through the haze of the morning: staring desolately out at the sky from the top of the Wall, waiting for him to return. She had come North with all three of her children. Only one remained with her, circling overhead, crying out for his brothers. Every fiber of her being had resisted leaving without the other two – _a mother does not flee without her children_ – but Ser Jorah had come to fetch her, promising that Tormund would send word as soon as his men spotted any sign of “the green one.”

That had been hours ago.

The whole ship had been blanketed in an eerie, uncomfortable silence since they set sail from Eastwatch. As she worked through the afternoon, Daenerys was acutely aware of the footfalls edging past her door, the insistent shushes whenever anyone raised their voice above a whisper. Her traveling companions were treading on eggshells, taking great pains not to disturb her.

It was early evening before the first murmurs of conversation reached her ears, and this despite the speakers’ best intentions. It wasn’t their fault that the old wooden walls of the ship did so little to dull the passage of sound. Ser Davos had taken the band of survivors aside, trying to ascertain exactly what had happened beyond the Wall. The young man called Gendry seemed to be the only one willing to engage him in conversation; he spoke enthusiastically at great lengths about a twelve-foot, undead polar bear before taking over the line of questioning himself, turning to grill his fellow expeditioners for details of the battle he was crestfallen to have missed. His efforts earned him, at best, a few gruff answers from Jon, glowering silence from Jorah, and vulgar insults from Sandor Clegane. After a while Daenerys began to tune out his youthful exuberance in favor of the more pressing matters at hand, until one phrase in particular caused her breath to hitch in her chest:

“A full-grown _dragon?_ Seven Hells, what kind of weapon could take down a beast like that?”

A chorus of hisses followed, hushing the young man violently. Someone must have cuffed him upside the head, for he let out a yelp of pain. A few harsh whispers passed back and forth between the men, none of which she could make out, before the clang of an old copper bell rang out, interrupting them.

Daenerys froze for a moment before recognition set in. She hadn’t been thinking… but of course, it was nearly sundown. The cook would have prepared the evening meal for her and her distinguished guests. The very thought of food soured her stomach and brought the iron taste of ashes to her mouth, but a failure to present herself for supper would not be so easily dismissed as an afternoon spent holed up with her work. She was out of excuses; if she hid out any longer, it could only be construed as a sign of weakness.

With a sigh of resignation, she finalized the last sentence of the letter she’d been working on, signed her name, and sealed the parchment with her official crest. She set it aside quickly, her eyes glazing over at the image of the three-headed dragon burned into the red wax.

_A lie, now_ , she mused darkly. Perhaps all of it was. Her visions, her magic. Perhaps she’d been a fool to believe any of it in the first place.

Daenerys closed her eyes, drew in a long, deep breath, and rose to her feet. When she opened them again, she made sure that the Queen’s gaze was iced firmly in place.

The men turned to face her the moment her door opened, dipping their heads respectfully. Most of them at least had the good grace to look ashamed of themselves. Daenerys strode past them with long, confident strides, and they followed after her single-file into the small dining hall adjacent to the ship’s galley. A long oak table filled nearly the entire space, elegantly dressed with fine silver, candelabras, and heaping platters of food. A veritable feast had been laid out before them: chicken, goose and trout, parsnip pies, boiled cabbage, baked apples with cinnamon, a spread of various cheeses, and good brown bread. Somewhere behind her, one of the men’s stomachs growled.

Ser Jorah wove his way through the small gathering to pull her chair back for her, and tuck it back in once she was seated. She didn’t so much as glance at him. There was a cacophony of sound as the rest of her companions seated themselves, in turn, around the table – the scrape of chairs, the rustle of cloaks, a few coughs – and then pin-drop silence. Daenerys felt the burn of half a dozen gazes on her face as she poured herself a glass of red wine and lifted it to the group.

“To your health, my lords,” she toasted, in the deep, authoritative tone she bore as the Queen. “Thanks to you, we now have irrefutable evidence to present to Cersei. We can only hope that your efforts will be rewarded with a truce, once she looks upon the face of our common enemy.” She shifted her gaze to Jon, needing to prove that she could still look him unflinchingly in the eye. She stared at him evenly as she reiterated her promise to him for the rest of the group. “Today I saw for myself where the true battle for Westeros lies. I need no further convincing. I want you all to know that regardless of the outcome in King’s Landing, it will be my honor to continue to fight alongside you in the Great War to come.”

She completed the toast with a sip of wine, and the rest of the men followed suit. Jon gave her a subtle, appreciative nod before raising his voice in his official capacity. “I’m glad to hear it, Your Grace. We certainly welcome the help.”

“Aye,” said Ser Davos, his tone pleasantly surprised. “I’d say that’s the best news we’ve had in weeks. If there’s any chance of us actually winning this war, we’ll need you on our side. We witnessed that much for ourselves today.”

Daenerys nodded. A muscle in her neck twitched. Anxious to redirect the conversation, she gestured to the platters of food in front of them. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony, my lords. Please, help yourselves.”

The men didn’t need to be told twice. Before she had even finished the sentence, Sandor Clegane had taken hold of the roast chicken in front of him, ripped the carcass in half with his bare hands, and begun shoveling it into his mouth. The others showed a bit more decorum, but were no less ravenous; they filled their plates to the brim and tucked in like the starving men they were. It had been days since they’d had a solid meal, and they had fought long and hard on empty bellies. Thankfully, they were too distracted by the banquet to make any further attempts at conversation beyond murmurs of appreciation for the food.

Daenerys served herself a small portion of fish from the platter in front of her, which she proceeded to pick at idly with her fork. To keep up appearances, she nibbled at a crust of bread, but blanched as the bitter taste of ashes filled her mouth again. She forced herself to swallow the bite, but didn’t make the mistake of trying another. The wine, on the other hand… she poured herself a second, rather generous glass of the Dornish vintage.

“Have we received any ravens this afternoon?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral. Her companions looked to one another, each shaking their heads.

“No, Your Grace,” said Ser Davos, who had apparently assumed the role of speaking for the group. “Not that I’m aware of.” He tilted his head slightly. “Is there anything in particular we should be looking for?”

Hiding her tight throat behind a sip of wine, she lied, “No. Nothing in particular.” Admitting to this battle-weary group of men that she was desperate for news of Rhaegal’s whereabouts would only make her seem like a weak, fretful woman. They had already spent the day tiptoeing around her like she was a fragile porcelain doll; she didn’t need to reinforce their perceptions. She returned to moving the food around her plate, and hoped the rest would follow suit.

All but one of them did.

Daenerys tried, and failed, to ignore Jorah’s lingering stare across the table. She sat rod-straight, staring at nothing, focusing all her attention on keeping her features smooth and unreadable. It was a fool’s errand, admittedly. There was no mask she could hide behind that his piercing blue eyes would not see through with a single glance. He knew her too well to believe her pretense of cool equanimity. The best she could do was avoid eye contact and sip at her wine while she tried to gauge just how long propriety required her to sit at the table before she could reasonably excuse herself. When Gendry sopped up the last bit of gravy from his plate and inquired about dessert, she decided that was her cue. She pushed back her chair with a screech of wood, and at once the men staggered to their feet, their mouths still full of food.

“I’m told the cook has prepared a wonderful blackberry pie,” she announced, a bit too brightly. “Please, stay as long as you like. Eat and drink your fill. You have all earned it several times over. But if my lords will excuse me, I think I will take my leave and retire for the evening.”

Jorah dropped his napkin over his plate and moved to follow her. “Allow me to escort you, Your Grace—”

“ _No_ ,” she snapped, more sharply than she intended. She quickly schooled her features back into neutrality, and waved a dismissive hand at him. “Thank you, Ser Jorah. I wouldn’t wish to disrupt your meal. Please, stay and eat. I am more than capable of finding my way back to my room.”

He’d always been terrible at hiding his disappointment. “As you wish, my Queen,” he murmured, bowing his head submissively.

“I’ll do my best to keep this lot in line, Your Grace,” Ser Davos offered. He gave her a charming wink. “Won’t have them kicking up a drunken ruckus and disturbing your royal slumber.”

“I appreciate the effort, Ser,” she told him. “But please don’t hinder the festivities on my account. This may be the last feast these men will see for quite some time.”

“That’s good of you, Your Grace, but we’ll keep the noise down just the same.”

“As you will,” Daenerys relented. She turned then and strode down the line of chairs, making for the door. Each of the men, in turn, bid her goodnight, and she nodded politely at them as she passed.

Jon was the last person seated at the table, and he spoke to her softly as she walked past him, “Sleep well, my Queen.”

The timbre of his voice made her stride falter. Daenerys tightened her lips in what she hoped passed for a smile, while privately she thought, _Not likely_. She left the room in carefully measured steps, so as not to appear too eager to leave. Only once she was well out of eyesight of anyone in the dining hall did she pick up her hem and flee for the safety of her room. Inside, she pushed the cabin door shut behind her and latched it for good measure.

The silence that followed was deafening. Daenerys knew better than to linger idly in it, so she set at once to undressing and changing into her nightclothes. It was more difficult than it looked, without a handmaiden there to help. There seemed to be an endless number of hooks, buttons and laces holding her outfit together. When she finally unclasped the last of them, she dropped the whole ensemble to the floor and stepped gingerly out of it. She shivered in the night air as she drew a simple ivory silk shift from her nightstand and pulled it over her head. The wardrobe that had suited her well in temperate Meereen was proving to be wholly inadequate for the frigid Westerosi nights.

She climbed quickly into bed and pulled the heavy furs up to her chin. For a while she lay quiet, straining to hear the hushed conversations from the other side of the ship. Davos had kept his promise; she couldn’t make out a single word. Giving up, she opened the drawer of her nightstand to find something to read. She had left her well-loved songs and histories of Westeros here, knowing that the only time she ever read for leisure any more was during her travels. Her fingers brushed thoughtfully over the faded leather bindings. Most of them she could recite from memory by now. She selected one of the dryer historical volumes tonight, and flipped cautiously through the yellowed pages, avoiding any passages on the Long Night or Targaryen conquest. After some consideration, she decided that the Andal Invasion proved safe enough, and she settled back against her pillows, her eyes drifting over each paragraph without processing a single word.

She had just skimmed the chapter detailing the fall of the Fingers when the shuffling of boots returned from the dining hall. Daenerys quickly snapped her book shut and leaned forward to blow out the candle on her nightstand, anxious to deter any visitors. Someone’s footsteps approached her door, checking on her, and she held very still, barely breathing. Whoever it was must have decided she was asleep, for she heard nothing more from them. The sound of doors opening and shutting echoed along the corridor. A few minutes later, several of the men were snoring.

A slant of moonlight broke through the heavy cloud cover beyond her port window, illuminating the ribbon of grey smoke that rose from the extinguished candle wick. Something about the sight of it sent a cold chill down Daenerys’s spine. Shivering, she turned over in bed and drew the furs tightly around her shoulders. She tried to convince herself that it had simply been a draft, but the cold tendrils of fear had already slithered through the cracks in her defenses and coiled in her chest like a vice.

There was something sinister, something inherently frightening about the dark. The longer she stared at the panels of the wall, the more she saw eyes in the knots of wood. Empty, soulless sockets. The faces of corpses. She squeezed her eyes shut and curled into a ball, pressing her fists to the galloping pulse in her throat. That was even worse; out of the darkness burst a cascade of blood and flame, hurtling down…

Daenerys flung the furs away from her and bolted upright in bed. She couldn’t stay in this room any longer. She needed to move. She needed air. She needed _out_.

The wooden planks of the floor were like ice against her bare feet, but she didn’t stop long enough to pull on her boots or a cloak. Her fingers fumbled on the latch to the door until it lifted with a metallic clank, then grabbed the iron knob and wrenched it open.

Her throat was closed with fright; she didn’t even have the ability to scream as she stumbled forward over the body that sprawled across the opposite side of the threshold. A scarred hand reached up to grab and steady her as its owner staggered to his feet. In an instant of mortal terror, Daenerys was certain she was about to die – that the captive wight had somehow escaped its confinement and come for her.

Then a voice spoke out of the shadowed face before her, as familiar to her as her own. “Easy… easy. It’s only me.”


	2. Chapter 2

It took her the span of several heaving, shuddering breaths to recover her ability to see clearly; her vision had gone hazy at the edges. By the time it stabilized, Daenerys wasn’t sure whether to feel rage or relief.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, wrenching her arm away.

Ser Jorah took a slow, measured step back. “Forgive me, Khaleesi. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The rage quickly won out. She felt it rise in her chest like dragonflame. “ _What are you doing_ outside my room?”

“Keeping watch, my Queen.”

“Keeping watch,” she echoed acerbically. “On _my_ ship, surrounded by friends and allies? Who precisely do you mean to protect me from?”

“I—”

“I don’t need _protecting_ , Ser Jorah. Not from you, not from anyone. Or perhaps you’ve already forgotten who saved whom from the Night King’s army?”

“I have not forgotten.”

“Good.” She brushed past him without another word, and climbed the six steps from her cabin out to the promenade deck. The moment she stepped beyond the shelter of the stairwell, the icy wind and swirling snow whipped through her hair and nightgown, chilling her to the bone. She gritted her teeth against it and pushed stubbornly forward. She was Stormborn, the blood of the dragon – what harm could the winter gales do her? She stood in the middle of the deck and concentrated on the stinging pinpricks of snow as they bit into the bare flesh of her arms and legs. This was exactly what she needed. Out here, the cold consumed her senses completely. There was no room for anything else.

… Until a gust of wind shrieked across the sea and through the sails, piercing her like a knife. She clasped her hands over her ears, trying in vain to drown it out. In a panic, she wheeled about, looking for somewhere else she could run. A silver sheen of moonlight filtered through the storm clouds, casting the ship around her in a cold, sinister glow. As her eyes skimmed the frost-slicked deck and the turbulent black waves beyond, the reality of the situation began to settle in her bones like lead.

There was no escape. Not out here… not anywhere. She could sail all the way to Dorne, or to Essos, and it wouldn’t matter. There was nowhere she could go that the pain and the horror would not follow.

She staggered over to the ship’s railing on legs that felt suddenly unsteady, bracing herself against the wooden hull on shaking arms. Her eyes went down to the roiling sea, glassing over, as the night air chilled the last of the fire in her breast. All of the rage, the terror, the panic, burned out as swiftly as they’d ignited, torn from her breast and scattered to the winter winds as surely as the shimmering white clouds of breath that fleeted between her lips. She knew what it was to be cold, then.

Beneath the howl of the storm, her rational mind made one last, desperate bid for restraint, insisting that there wasn’t time for this. Every hour brought them closer to King’s Landing, to the doorstep of her enemies. The Queen didn’t have the luxury of indulging her grief.

But the sentry who kept vigil over her tonight had known her long before she was Queen. After all this time, he still addressed her by her old title – a gentle reminder of the many years he’d stood by her side. Despite the venom she’d just spat at him, she could sense him standing a few paces behind her, guarding her still. _Keeping watch_ , he’d said. Of course, she realized belatedly, he didn’t mean to protect her from anyone else on the ship. He’d been keeping a watchful eye out for _her_ , all day long… on Drogon’s back, at the Wall, at supper.

Jorah understood exactly what she had lost that morning. He was the only person left alive who did; the only one to have witnessed her transformation from a grieving, barren, powerless widow into the Mother of Dragons. All those years ago, he had been the one to carry her, doubled with contractions, into the tent roaring with the shrieks of the dead. He had stood guard over her for days on end after the Lhazareen witch pulled Rhaego’s twisted corpse from her womb. He had watched as she stepped into the pyre with three stone eggs, and he had been the one to find her the next morning, huddled amidst the ashes, cradling her baby dragons. She didn’t need to explain to him that her children were living extensions of her, so deeply imbedded in her identity that she could no longer tell where she ended and they began. He’d been with her on the day they were born, and that morning, he had watched with her as a third of her soul fell in a torrent of fire and blood, shattered and slipped into the icy depths of the lake.

Without turning, Daenerys lifted a trembling hand out to her side. Her bear closed the space between them, gently weaving his careworn fingers through hers. She couldn’t feel her face any more; she barely noticed the tears that slipped from her lashes and froze on her cheeks. When she finally spoke, her voice was so frail that it was nearly lost beneath the roar of the sea.

“Every time the wind blows, I swear I hear him screaming.”

The lines of his face deepened with concern. He slid his hand up to rest between her shoulder blades, urging her back in the direction they’d come. “Let’s get you back inside,” he murmured.

“No.” She dug her heels in, rooting herself to the spot. “I want to stay. I need to hear it.”

He knew better than to argue. No amount of pleading would sway her when she had made up her mind. Instead, Jorah swept off his heavy, fur-lined coat and draped it around her. Daenerys swam in it; it fell nearly to her knees, and wrapped easily around her small frame twice. For the time being, it was compromise enough for them both.

Jorah studied her face for a moment, drinking in the subtleties written there, before following her gaze north. “It’s a sound no mother should ever have to hear,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I wish I could take it from you. But there is no more screaming, Khaleesi. Viserion is at peace now.”

“Peace,” she breathed, choking over the word. “You saw him fall, Ser Jorah. You saw the blood pour from his neck. You saw the way his chest caved in when he hit the ice. You _saw_ —”

“I saw,” he agreed, taking her hands and turning her to face him. “I close my eyes and I see it still. The vision will haunt me to the end of my days.”

An old memory stirred at the earnestness in his voice, and her features softened. “After you have forgotten your mother’s face,” she murmured sadly. Jorah’s eyes glistened with recognition. He gave her hands a squeeze. It seemed to be their common language now, when words would not suffice.

With a shuddering sigh, Daenerys leaned forward and laid her head against his chest. She closed her eyes on tears as he smoothed a hand through her hair, while the other slid across her back to hold her at the waist. She didn’t know how long they stood there, silent and still as the wind whipped all around them.

At long last, it was Jorah who broke the silence. “I do have one piece of good news for you,” he said. Daenerys lifted her head to look at him. “A raven arrived from Eastwatch shortly after you turned in for the evening. The wildling scouts spotted Rhaegal in an ice cave a few leagues south of the Wall.”

“South?”

He nodded.  Exhaling in relief, Daenerys drew back from his arms and turned out to the sea. Her eyes went to the horizon, scanning for any flash of shadow along the jagged, moonlit shore. “When we didn’t hear from him for so long, I thought he might have gone back—”

“He knows better,” said Jorah, stepping up beside her. “They both do.”

She made a little scoffing noise, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Drogon won’t let me out of his sight. He’s been circling all day. But Rhaegal…”

“Is safe,” Jorah assured her.

“For now.”

He ignored that. “He will follow soon enough.”

Daenerys shook her head. That morning she had found Rhaegal and Viserion curled up together on the cliffs at Dragonstone, sleeping in the sun. Tonight, Viserion’s beautiful golden corpse lay at the bottom of a frozen lake. And Rhaegal… Rhaegal apparently couldn’t even bear to be near her. He’d chosen to grieve alone in a desolate cave at the edge of the world.

“Perhaps not,” she whispered. “Perhaps he has finally had enough.” She ran her fingernail along a groove in the hull, refusing to look up. “He’s right to blame me.”

Jorah’s head lifted in surprise, his brow furrowed. “Blame you? Why would—”

“Because it’s my fault.”

“Daenerys…”

She cut him off, unwilling to hear comforting platitudes. “I was reckless with their lives. I should never have brought all three of them north. If I had commanded Rhaegal and Viserion to stay behind—”

“Then Drogon would have been the one struck down,” Jorah reasoned. “And all the rest of us turned to blue-eyed corpses.”

Her stomach dropped at the thought. “No,” she argued, her voice taking on a desperate edge. “Drogon dodged the spear.”

“Only after he saw the first one strike his brother. Until that moment, none of us had any idea what sort of weapons the Night King would wield.” He gripped her hand and held it tight. “You cannot blame yourself.”

Her violet eyes flashed as she pulled away from him. “I can, and I do.” She pursed her lips to keep them from trembling, and gulped down several steadying breaths of air before she added, “And I don’t blame Rhaegal for hating me for it.”

Jorah took a step toward her, shaking his head plaintively. “He could never hate you,” he soothed. “You are his mother.”

She broke, then. The last remnants of her composure shattered like the ice of the lake. She put a hand to her mouth to smother the onslaught of tears, but it was no use. She couldn’t catch her breath. Each tight, stuttering gasp felt as though it would splinter her ribcage. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs as she buckled against the hull of the ship and sank to the deck.

For a moment Jorah was too stunned to react; he stood back, wide-eyed and uncertain, before dropping to a knee beside her. “Khaleesi...”

“ _Don’t_ ,” she managed.

He was wise enough to ease back, withdrawing his hand just before it touched her shoulder. Dany hugged her arms and knees to her chest instinctively; she felt that if she didn’t hold herself together somehow, the sobs would rip her apart. The grief raged through her unfettered, and she surrendered to it willingly now, letting it shake her to her very bones.

 _Viserion_ …

She remembered the moment he first opened his eyes, blinking up at her with orbs of molten gold. She remembered the sweet little squeaks and chirps he made as she nestled him against her ash-streaked skin. She remembered the thrill of pride she felt when he went on his first hunt in the lush gardens of Qarth, catching his very own meal: a little grey mouse that was almost too big for his mouth. She remembered how he and Rhaegal would curl up to sleep at night, spinning around one another before fitting themselves into a perfect circle of gold and green. She remembered the way her heart dropped when the two of them would freefall through the air, clawing and snapping at one another over a rabbit or a goat or a sheep, paying no mind to the fast-approaching ground below them.  She remembered storming after them in exasperation, yelling at them in Valyrian to watch where they were going, threatening to take their kill away if they couldn’t settle their own disputes without bloodshed. They paid her no heed, of course – but later, when they came back to camp to roost for the night, she remembered how they would nudge their heads under her arms, making the same soft squeaks they had when they were babies, until at last she relented and smiled, unable to remain angry with them.

She could still hear Jorah chuckling from across the tent, marveling that the ire of the mighty Khaleesi could be calmed by a few pitiful mewls. He teased her playfully for her tender mother’s heart, and Daenerys had never been able to come up with an adequate retort.

She surfaced from the confines of her own private misery to look for her bear now, but found him on the opposite side of her than she had anticipated. He had repositioned himself to block her from the worst of the wind and snow. His thoughtfulness brought on a fresh wave of tears, but the suffocating tightness in her chest had eased somewhat. She could breathe now, in starts and stops. The moment she reached for him, he returned to her side, considerately pressing a handkerchief into her palm. A pang of guilt struck her as she noted how his hand shook.

“You’re shivering,” she murmured as she wiped her reddened eyes and nose.

“Aye,” he said, glancing down at his thick leather jerkin and wool trousers. “And I’m dressed for the weather.” He swept a windblown lock of silver hair back from her face, his eyes imploring. “Let me take you back inside. We’ll talk,” he promised. “I’ll stay up with you all night, if need be, but you don’t need to freeze to death in this storm. Please, Khaleesi.”

Daenerys held his gaze a while longer, then nodded her assent. There was no real reason left to fight him on the matter. She didn’t resist when he tucked a hand under the crook of her knee and scooped her up off the ground. Her arm slid up around his neck to steady herself as he carried her across the deck, back down the stairs, and into her cabin. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Under the covers, now,” he murmured as he laid her down on the bed. She did as she was told, wrapping herself tightly in the furs while Jorah fumbled in the darkness to light the candle on her bedside stand. Once the flame flickered to life, he turned for the door. “I’ll go fetch some hot water—”

Daenerys caught his wrist in a panic. She knew that she was acting like a child, but she was too far gone to care. The thought of lying alone in the darkness of that room again made her skin crawl with dread. “No, I’m fine,” she stammered. “I’ll be fine.” Jorah looked at her skeptically, and she pleaded with him, her voice quavering, “Don’t leave me.”

Any resistance melted from his face immediately. He sat down at the edge of the bed and lifted her pale hand to his lips. “Never,” he promised.

She reclaimed his hand between her own and clutched it under her chin like a child with a blanket. His fingers were warm against her chilled skin, and after a while she found herself nuzzling absently into his hand. When she glanced up again, the look of pure adulation in his eyes stole her breath away. For just a moment, she thought it would be easy, so incredibly easy to draw him down to her, to let him smother her grief in the warmth of his love. Her walls and defenses were in ruins around her; she was completely vulnerable. He needed only to press his advantage.

He wanted to. His eyes ached with it. She could almost see his pulse bounding in his throat, in his temples, as her gaze roamed the rugged lines of his face. Her lips parted, drawing in a tremulous breath.

Jorah stopped breathing.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he leaned down, his eyes never leaving hers. Daenerys returned his gaze unflinchingly, trusting him. Only when she felt the brush of his nose against hers did she allow her eyelashes to flutter shut. She could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the shudder of warm air that passed between their lips. But before she could even consider lifting her mouth to his, he had eased off to one side, following the curve of her cheek. His lips left a whisper of a kiss at her temple, and then he drew back.

Daenerys lay still for a moment, her eyes closed, her heart pounding. A crimson flush burned up her neck and across her cheeks at the realization of what they’d nearly done.

It was her fault, she recognized immediately. He shouldn’t have had to be the one to pull away. It was their unspoken agreement that it was her job to hold the shield between them. He professed his love, and she stood still and listened, communicating volumes in her silence. She loved him, too – that much was undisputed – but she had been exceedingly careful never to examine what sort of love it was she felt for him in return. It didn’t matter – couldn’t matter. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms needed to remain open to a marriage of strategic importance. If she’d followed Tyrion’s advice, she would have dismissed Jorah from her court altogether, as she had Daario, cutting any ties that might prove a hindrance to her political pursuits. Perhaps it would have even been kinder to Jorah, to reinstate his Lordship over Bear Island and let him live out the remainder of his days back home, with a wife who could reciprocate his love in the way he deserved, who could bear him children to carry on his family name. She wished she had the strength to give that to him – to command it as his Queen, knowing that he would otherwise refuse. But her heart couldn’t take it. The very thought of sending him away again made her whole body go cold.

When she finally dared to open her eyes, the Queen was nowhere to be found; it was Dany who stared up at him, nearly a decade of shared history burning and sparking in the space between them, and all the emotions carried within it storming in her violet eyes – the hurt, the betrayal, the love, the friendship… the crushing, impossible guilt of trapping him there with her, knowing that it would never be enough.

 _I’m sorry,_ she told him with her gaze, not trusting her own voice. In her bear’s weathered face she found the same steadfast, patient, selfless love she’d seen reflected there for as long as she could remember. He’d already forgiven her, a thousand times over, and a thousand times again.

When she tried to speak his name, he hushed her gently, reading her as clearly as if she’d spoken aloud. “Shh. It doesn’t matter. Not tonight.” He took her hand, his thumbs brushing delicate circles over her knuckles. “Daenerys, I wish to the gods I could take your pain and bear it myself. Believe me, if I thought for a moment that offering a distraction would help, then I’d….” With great effort, he dropped his gaze from her lips to their joined hands, collecting himself with an iron will. He shifted his seat, and sighed deeply. “I know I cannot begin to fathom… I’ve never lost a child, not like this. I wasn’t able to look on the faces of the babes my wife lost in the birthing bed. But I do understand what it is to lose someone you love very deeply.”

Daenerys looked away, unable to bear the sight of his grief reflected back at her like a mirror of her own soul. He’d never told her any of this before. He didn’t like to talk about his life before his exile from Westeros. When prodded, any answers he gave about the subject were normally clipped and very brief. She knew by the pain in his voice that he needed to tell this story as much as she needed to hear it. She squeezed his hand and lowered her chin in a half-nod, encouraging him to continue.

“My mother never belonged on Bear Island. She was a southern beauty, with golden hair and roses in her cheeks. Her smile could warm you to the bones just to look at it. She grew up on an orchard, with sunshine and open fields. She wasn’t made to survive the harsh winters in the North. When she died, all of the light and warmth went out of our halls. My father went out into the forest for hours at a time, chopping wood to build up the fires. He cleared entire groves of pines, and it was never enough. He was the strongest man I’ve ever known, and the sorrow broke him. He couldn’t bear to live in those walls without her. When he summoned me to the Hall and placed his Valyrian steel sword in my hands, I knew that he was leaving, and that he was never coming back. I wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t speak to him. I wouldn’t even tell him goodbye.”

Jorah reached out to lift her chin, drawing her eyes to his. “When he looked at me, he saw the same expression you wore at supper tonight. He said to me, ‘You’re angry. That’s good. Don’t make your Father’s mistake, and try to bury the grief. It will only turn to poison. Purge it, burn it away, and let it scar. It will make you stronger, if you let it.’”

Daenerys covered his hand with hers, holding it to her cheek. She hummed thoughtfully, considering his words. “So it’s an old Mormont trait, then,” she mused, her eyes gentle. “Offering sage advice that you yourself brazenly ignore.”

“Aye, I suppose it is.” His eyes sparkled for a moment before his face grew serious again. “He was right, though. If I’d listened to him, my life might have turned out much differently.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” she whispered.

“So am I,” Jorah agreed, brushing his thumb over the curve of her cheekbone. Daenerys curled her fingers around his hand to still it, and pressed a kiss to his calloused palm. He sighed shakily, then, and gave her a fleeting, sad smile.

“You are no stranger to loss, Khaleesi. I know you will process the grief in your own time, in your own way. I don’t pretend to be any great expert on the subject, but I do know that heavy burdens are easier to bear with a second set of hands. If you need to talk about it… about the way he died, about the way he lived… I’m here to listen.”

Her brows knitted together, her eyes far away. She shook her head, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of memories that stretched before her. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” she admitted quietly.

“At the beginning,” he said, without a trace of irony. “Perhaps tell me a story from when he was small. Something that makes your heart glad just to think of it.”

Daenerys drew herself slowly to a sitting position, bracing her back against the headboard. She sat quietly for a time, fretting a piece of the fur blanket between her thumb and forefinger. When she was fairly certain she could speak in a level voice, she began hesitantly, “Out there, I was…” She swallowed, took a breath. “I was remembering how he and Rhaegal would curl up to sleep at night, when they were little.”

“Mm. The Dance of Dragons, we called it,” said Jorah, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Yes,” she released her breath in a sound that was almost a laugh. “That was it. They were religious about it. The same dance, the same routine, always. Do you remember the night I tried to separate them, to punish them for squabbling?”

“How could I forget? We were on the ship to Astapor. They screamed for hours, kept the whole crew awake. Rhaegal ripped apart half the cargo hold before you gave in.”

She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite meet her eyes. “They loved each other. From the very first, they…” Her voice faltered, and Jorah took her hand. She drew in a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips. “I was meticulous, in the beginning. I knew that a mother should never show a preference among her children. I was so careful to split my time with them evenly. But even when they were babies, there was this… this natural division between them. Drogon wanted me, only me, but Viserion and Rhaegal preferred each other. They loved me, I know they did. They’d purr and sing for as long as I held them. But the moment I placed them back in their basket, they’d twirl together into their little circle to sleep. Whereas Drogon…” She sighed.

“Oh, I remember.” Jorah lifted his right hand to reveal a half-moon scar of white pinpoints the size of baby dragon teeth. “I only ever tried to take him from your shoulder once. I never made that mistake again.”

Her eyes shimmered as she took his hand in her own, tracing a finger lightly along the old scar. “It was difficult to be impartial, when he was so desperate to be near me,” she admitted. “After a while I told myself it was all right to let him stay with me, so long as Rhaegal and Viserion weren’t bothered by it. And they never were. They were never jealous, never spiteful, never. They were content so long as they had each other.”

Jorah nodded, his eyes fixed on her face, wordlessly encouraging her to continue. Perhaps he sensed her reluctance to delve any further. There were moments, dark and terrible moments that Daenerys was ashamed to revisit even on her best days. The thought of facing them tonight seemed almost unbearable. Her natural inclination was to skip past them, to smooth over the excruciating parts. She would have, had Jeor Mormont’s words not resounded with her. Steeling herself as best she could, she forced herself to purge the last of the poison.

“That’s how I justified it to myself, when I locked them away in the catacombs.” She allowed the words to slide into a heavy, aching silence before lifting haunted eyes to Jorah’s. “You were gone for that.”

“I was,” he replied softly. He shifted his weight, treading very carefully. “Daario Naharis told me bits and pieces. He said a peasant dropped his child’s bones at your feet.”

She gave a brisk, small nod. The image of the little girl’s charred skeleton still frequented her nightmares, all these years later. It stayed the worst of her Targaryen impulses when the question of burning down the Red Keep crept into her advisors’ conversations around the Painted Table.

“Her name was Zala,” she whispered. “She was three.”

Jorah was silent and still; his fingers had ceased their comforting ministrations along the back of her hand. Even his breathing slowed as he waited for her to continue.

“It was Drogon who killed her. Her father was incoherent with grief, but he did manage to communicate that much. ‘The winged shadow,’ he called him. I sent Daario and the Second Sons out among the people to spread the word that I was looking for him. How many shepherds and fishermen had come before me to seek repayment for the damage he had caused? I thought surely one of them would be able to tell me where he was. I offered fifty gold pieces to any man, woman or child whose information led to his capture. The line of informers stretched to the city gates by morning. All of them left empty-handed.”

She swallowed hard. “I had to do something. I couldn’t continue to make excuses or offer bags of gold. It wasn’t a goat or a sheep this time, it was someone’s child. Her father didn’t want payment. He wanted justice for his little girl. I couldn’t find Drogon. I couldn’t stop him. But I knew exactly where to find Viserion and Rhaegal.”

It was becoming difficult to speak; her throat constricted, as if unwilling to let the words pass. “They came willingly. Happily. They thought it was a great adventure. They were thrilled when they found the oxen I’d left for them. They didn’t even look up when I locked the irons around their necks. Rhaegal _purred_ for me as I chained him.” Jorah’s hand tightened on hers. She shook her head, despairing. “They never suspected. I was halfway back to the stairs before Viserion realized he couldn’t follow me. They screamed for me, they _screamed_ . They were so betrayed. And I just… left them there. I walked away and I left them, and I shut them in darkness. And they hadn’t even done anything _wrong_.”

Jorah’s hand went to her upper arm and kneaded gently. “You had no choice. As soon as word of the child’s death spread, your subjects would have demanded blood. They wouldn’t have cared which dragon was responsible. Locking Rhaegal and Viserion away protected them just as much as your people.”

“Yes, it was a very rational choice,” she snapped. “Believe me, I laid awake all night trying to come up with a list of reasons why it was the right decision. It was a long list. And not a single one of them mattered to my children.” She shook her head, her teeth set in self-loathing. “I went back to visit them the next night. I wanted them to know that I hadn’t abandoned them. I wanted to _explain_ it to them. Do you know what they did?” Jorah shook his head reluctantly, unable to meet her gaze. “They lunged at me, breathing fire. They were furious. For the first time in my life, I was afraid of them. They chased me out of the catacombs long before I could begin to regale them with my practical list of _reasons_ why they deserved to be locked away for their brother’s crimes.”

Unsure of what to say, Jorah wisely said nothing. Daenerys studied him for a time, watching his fingers resume their slow, absent strokes across the back of her hand. With a sigh, she rested her head back against the headboard. “I should have known better. I read every last page of the songs and histories you gave me. I knew what happened to the dragons once my ancestors put them in chains. _Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor._ ”

 _A dragon is not a slave_.

“No,” Jorah agreed. “But neither can they be allowed to lay waste to the land and its people without consequence. It was a dilemma your ancestors were never able to solve, I’m afraid. They did the best they could under the circumstances, and so did you.”

Daenerys gave him a small nod, unable to argue with his logic. She wasn’t certain whether her ancestors’ failings made hers any less reprehensible, but it sounded like good sense coming out of Jorah’s mouth.

“Some of the historians from those books of yours claim that dragons are more intelligent than men,” he continued. “I’m inclined to believe them. Your children may have been angry with you at first, but from my understanding, they flew to your side to join you in battle the moment they had their freedom.”

“Freedom their own mother never gave them,” she said bitterly. “It was a Lannister, of all people, who unchained them in the end.”

Jorah snorted. “Tyrion’s a bold man, I’ll grant him that much. But the point remains.” He gave her a look.

She bristled at the challenge. “The city was under attack,” she answered with a tinge of exasperation. “They saw their brother fly overhead, and yes, they joined him.”

“Mm.” His lips twitched knowingly. “I suppose it was Drogon who commanded them to burn the Wise Masters’ flagship?”

“Who told you all of this?” she demanded, her brow furrowed in disapproval.

“Your Hand enjoys the sound of his own voice,” he answered. “Particularly when he’s drunk.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes off to one side. “My Hand enjoys the sound of his own voice when he’s perfectly sober.”

“Aye, that he does.”

The moment of levity passed as swiftly as it had come, leaving Daenerys staring once again into her bear’s knowing blue eyes. Unarmed by the genuine understanding written there, she dropped her gaze, and tucked her knees up to her chest. Her throat rolled with a swallow, and at last she answered him, hoarsely, vulnerably. “Yes. They forgave me. Without question and without hesitation. Don’t you understand? That only made it worse.”

“Why?” he prodded gently, though she could see in his face that he already knew the answer.

“Because I didn’t deserve it,” she insisted, her voice ragged with pain. “I abandoned them to rot in the dungeons and then I used them as weapons for my own political gain. The moment they had their freedom, they should have flown far away from me.”

Jorah reached up, then, to cup her cheek in his hand. “The dragons followed you because you are their mother. No matter how much destruction they wreaked, no matter how much trouble they caused you, you never stopped loving them. That love works both ways, Khaleesi.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she demanded, feeling her jaw begin to ache with the threat of tears. “That Viserion loved me enough to follow me to his death?”

“Perhaps,” Jorah agreed softly. “Is there any better way to die than in service to the ones we love?”

“I didn’t want him to die at all!” she cried. Her voice cracked, and she felt herself rapidly coming undone. “I’m supposed to be the Protector of the Realm. How can I possibly claim that title if I can’t even protect the ones I love most in this world?”

Her bear was shaking his head, a litany of excuses rising on his tongue to defend her. Before they could escape, she choked out a broken sob. “He was my baby, Jorah,” she rasped through a throat cinched with pain. Her eyes welled with tears, begging him to understand. “He was my baby…”

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Jorah slid into bed beside her and took her in his arms. Daenerys grasped fistfuls of his tunic and buried her face in the crook of his neck, lost to her grief.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his own voice strained with sorrow.

“It’s my fault,” she sobbed.

“No. Shh, no, it’s not.”

“ _It is_.” She choked, and coughed, before continuing brokenly, “People have been telling me I’m in mortal danger for so long that I stopped believing them. It’s the Targaryen hubris, isn’t it? Our own blind _arrogance_. I didn’t even see the Night King take up the spear. I didn’t know Viserion was in danger until I heard him scream. I couldn’t call out to him, I couldn’t reach him, I couldn’t…” She heaved several shuddering breaths, her tears drenching his skin. “And now he’s gone, and I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye. I couldn’t tell him how sorry I am for being such a _terrible_ mother…”

Jorah shook his head, bringing his lips to the shell of her ear. “You are many things, Daenerys Stormborn,” he murmured. “But a terrible mother has never been one of them.” His hand smoothed broad, gentle circles along her back as he spoke. “Shhh. Listen to me. Listen now. Let me tell you what I remember, hm?” He was rocking her, subconsciously, swaying gently at the hips. “I remember a young widow, bleeding, in pain, blistered from the sun. The last of the horse meat was gone. You hadn’t eaten in two days. You barely had the strength to stand when Irri returned to camp with a desert hare. We tried to get you to eat, but you refused to take a single bite until the best cuts had been divided in three and given to your babies.” He smoothed her hair back from her face and gently lifted her chin to look at him. “A mother’s love is a fearsome, unbreakable thing. You would have sacrificed your life for your children. Viserion knew that, I promise you. He knew it in the Red Waste, he knew it in the catacombs, and he knew it with his dying breath.”

There was healing in his words, Daenerys knew, when the day came that she could begin to accept them. For now, her guilt still howled in her breast, insisting that she was to blame for all of this – that somehow she should have known, should have prevented it. She tucked her face back into the curve of his neck and cried until her ribs ached, until her eyes were puffy and her throat raw. Her breath hitched and shuddered with sobs long after she ran out of tears, dwindling gradually to whimpers, then hiccups. Jorah did his best to comfort her, gently massaging the rigid muscles of her back, her shoulders, her neck. When she was quiet in his arms, exhausted and completely cried out, his fingers began to work through her hair, gently teasing and smoothing over the fine threads of silver until she began to relax against him little by little. With time, her breathing grew slow and even, and she closed her eyes, lulled by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

When he thought her asleep, Jorah’s hand finally stilled at the base of her neck, cradling her, as he lowered his lips to her forehead. He breathed her in, pressing slow, gentle kisses along the top of her head before whispering into her hair, “Gods, but I love you.” 

The terror at just how quickly, how clearly, the natural response rose to the tip of Daenerys’s tongue was enough to arrest it there. It was all she could do to maintain the pretense of sleep while her pulse thrummed so frantically in her veins that she was sure he must feel it.

 _I can’t,_ she reminded herself, fiercely, repeatedly.

Already the sky beyond the port window was tinged through with violet and grey, the promise of morning waiting on the horizon. They would be home, soon, and then on to King’s Landing.

_We can’t._

And so she lay perfectly still in his arms, trying her best to convince herself that she hadn’t known the truth all along.

Jorah stayed with her a while longer, as unwilling to leave her as she was to let him go. When the first rays of dawn broke through the window, he finally eased out from underneath her, laying her head carefully down on the pillows. His spine cracked as he stood, and she heard him hiss a little through his teeth. After the strain of full-contact battle and two nights without sleep, it occurred to her, suddenly, how sore, how bruised, how utterly exhausted he must be.

It didn’t stop him from turning back, one last time, to whisper his fingers through her hair. He heaved a great sigh before turning for the door. When he lifted the heavy metal latch, Daenerys allowed her eyes to drift halfway open, watching him leave.

“ _Ñuha gryves_ ,” she murmured, lapsing sleepily into her mother tongue. _My bear._ He turned his head to look back at her. She locked gazes with him, letting her expression say what she couldn’t.

He gave her a tender smile. “Try to get some rest, my Queen,” he said, returning to the formalities that would constrain them going forward. “We will be at Dragonstone by midday, if the winds are with us.”

She closed her eyes by means of assent, and moved to pull the furs up around her chin. As her door clicked shut, she realized with a start that she was still wrapped in his coat. She went to sit up, to call out to him, and then thought better of it – it would not do to have someone overhear her, and wake to find Jorah sneaking out of her room at this hour. She removed the coat and folded it in half lengthwise, intending to place it on her bedside stand – but, missing the warmth and the comfort of him, she found herself curling up in it instead. She buried her face in the soft fur collar, and within minutes, the weight of exhaustion pulled her down into sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

EPILOGUE

The shrill cry of seagulls woke her several hours later. Daenerys raised a hand to shield her eyes, squinting in the late afternoon sun that poured in through the window. Her head and sinuses throbbed dully after the night spent crying, but she felt better, somehow – more herself. The sleep had done her good.

She stretched her aching muscles and eased herself out of bed, going through the motions of readying herself for the day as best she could, without Missandei there to assist her. She slipped into the same outfit she’d discarded on the floor the previous night, and powdered her face to cover up the worst of the blotchiness. The upper half of her hairstyle was salvageable, but the windblown mess that fell from the crown of her head down she simply swept into one long braid down the back. She studied her reflection in the mirror and sighed. It was about as passable as she was going to be today.

When she climbed the steps out to the promenade deck, she found the ship’s crew busy at work, hauling ropes and chains, lowering sails, and beginning to lift crates out of the cargo hold onto the deck for transport to shore. They were home; the cliffs of Dragonstone towered above them, crowned with the stone Targaryen fortress.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder, and she glanced up to find Jorah beside her again. She smiled at him sadly, but said nothing. The smile faded as she studied the expression on his face. There was something there – something she couldn’t quite place. His eyes kept darting from hers out to a spot in the distance, and he used the slightest pressure of his fingertips on her shoulder to steer her over to the railing. She gave him a quizzical look, following his gaze out to where she thought he was looking. She saw nothing.

“What is it?” she asked.

He didn’t need to answer her; at last, her eye caught a flicker of movement on the horizon, darting behind the cliffs. She watched the spot for a moment, not daring to blink. A minute later, she saw it again – a flash of green, this time accompanied by a sound she would have known anywhere.

“Rhaegal,” she breathed, his name a prayer on her lips.

Jorah nodded. “I thought I heard him earlier this morning, but I didn’t want to wake you until I was certain.”

The sting of tears pricked her eyes as she watched the green speck on the horizon, circling over the cliffs with a larger, darker form she knew to be Drogon.

“He came back.”

“Mm. I promised you he would.” He smiled at her gently. “It’s harder to stay away from you than one might think.”

Daenerys released her breath in a sigh of relief, and finally tore her eyes from the horizon. “Prepare my ship. I wish to sail for shore at once.”

He ducked his head in a brief bow, already backing away. “Yes, Your Grace.”

She caught his sleeve before he could step beyond her arm’s reach. “Ser Jorah.”

He halted, lifting an eyebrow. “My Queen?”

Before she could second-guess herself, she reached up to rasp her fingers across the stubble of his jaw, then twined them through the ginger curls at the back of his neck. She lifted up on the balls of her feet to kiss his cheek, an echo of the night they stood before Khal Drogo’s pyre.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Truly, Jorah.”

Every line of his face softened at her touch. He shifted his head almost imperceptibly, leaning into her hand as she drew it back down his cheek. “I serve at your pleasure, Khaleesi," he murmured. "As always.”

For the briefest moment, she touched her forehead to his, forgetting the number of eyes that were upon them. Suddenly remembering herself, she released him and took a firm step back, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

“Then take me to my dragons. There is much that their mother would say to them.”

His eyes crinkled in that warm, knowing way that told her he understood completely. Bowing his head, he turned and went to find the shipmaster to prepare her way home.


End file.
